


The Countdown

by sleepingintheculdesac



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Speechwriter Bucky, there's lots of sad here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingintheculdesac/pseuds/sleepingintheculdesac
Summary: It’s Bucky’s job to have the right words. But one look at Steve Rogers, and words fail him.





	1. Chapter 1

“George Barnes… George Barnes…. there we are. Room 241.” 

The nurse looks up and meets Bucky’s eye from behind the counter with an overly sympathetic smile. Her eyes flicker to the empty left sleeve, then back to his face. Bucky resists the urge to visibly wince. 

“Your mother is there already - I don’t think he’s awake, but you can go in to see him if you’d like. Down the hall, take a left.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says shortly, readjusting the strap of his book bag sliding off his right shoulder. He turns away from the desk, picks up his duffle bag from the hospital ground, and makes his way down the hall. The hallway is a blur of pastel, too bright, too white, too much teal. 

The door is cracked open only slightly; Bucky peers through the slit of the door to see the back of a woman sitting in a chair, her face resting in her hand, elbow propped up on the chair’s arm. Bucky sighs, and gently pushes the door open. The resulting _creak_ of the hinge is enough to startle the woman, who instantly straightens up and whips her head towards the door. 

Kind, dark eyes meet his. “Oh, baby, you shouldn’t have come,” Winifred Barnes says, holding her hand up. Bucky, resigned steps close, allowing his mother’s hand to brush against his stubbled cheek. 

“How’s he doing?” he says, pulling up a second chair beside his mother’s. He drops his duffle bag once more, then slides the book bag off his shoulder and lets it slump on the ground. 

Winifred rests a hand on her son’s right shoulder. “He’ll be happy you’re here.” Bucky doesn’t respond, doesn’t even turn to look at his father lying on the hospital bed, instead eyeing his mother - her dark hair greying visibly at the roots, the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced, nail polish slightly chipped. 

“You look exhausted.” 

“I look old. There’s a difference.” 

“I know the difference. Have you slept at all since he came in?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, you did not fly all the way from North Carolina to give your mother hell for not sleeping.” Her tone is sharp, but there’s no fight in it. She quickly changes the topic. “I saw Governor Pierce’s speech last week.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but says nothing.

“It was very well-written.”

“You don’t have to keep watching them, you know. It’s the same bullshit every time.” 

“Yes, but it’s eloquent bullshit dear.”

Bucky snorts.

Winifred manages a smile. “And I’ll keep watching them as long as you’re the one writing them.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re such a pageant-mom.” 

“If that means I’m proud of my son, then yes I am.”

“I’ve been his speechwriter for years. Hasn’t the pride gotten old by now?”

“Not quite, love.”

The two fall silent, save for the heart monitor beeping in the background. Bucky resolutely looks away from the screen. “Is he awake much?”

“A couple hours a day,” she replies. “He just fell asleep a few hours ago.” 

“Why don’t you let me take you home? You can wash up and we can come back tomorrow—” he barely gets the sentence out, but Winifred is already shaking her head. “Mom, c’mon - you’re not doing him any favours just sitting here.”

“James, please.” The silence that falls over them is instant, thick with tension, like a strung bow.She exhales a slow breath, and just like that, the tension slowly dissipates. Her hand is still on his shoulder. She gives it a tight squeeze. “I’ll go home tonight.”

Bucky exhales slowly, then settles in more comfortably in his chair. He puts his right hand on top of hers, still resting on his shoulder, and gives it a light squeeze. 

It was going to be a long night. 

 

***

 

“It’s that bad?”

“Apparently it’s a miracle he’s lasted this long,” Bucky says into his phone, pacing out into the waiting room. His hair, which had been haphazardly tied back for his plane ride in, has been slowly falling out of its elastic. He pushes his hair out of his face, and huffs. 

“I guess I’ll book a flight.” The woman on the other end of the line sounds as drained as Bucky feels. He hears the muted sound of shrill tears in the background.

“You’re gonna cart Jamie across the country, are you?” Bucky says. “Don’t be cruel to my niece, Becs.” 

“Well hell, James, if it’s as bad as you’re saying, I can’t not come.” 

“Wait for Will to get home first,” Bucky says, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder to free up his hand so he can reach in his pocket for the gum he knows he has stashed somewhere. “Then come. He’s back from Sweden in a few days, right?” 

“Friday,” Rebecca says, then sighs. “But what if dad doesn’t make it to Friday?” 

Bucky keeps his tone even. “You’re not coming for him anyway, you’re coming for mom, so what does it matter.” 

“Christ, James, you can’t just say shit like that,” Rebecca scolds. “The man is dying.”

“Look, he’s barely conscious as it is. I’ve been here for hours and he hasn’t even woken up once. You'd be no help here. I can take care of mom for a lousy week.” 

“And your boss is okay with you taking time off?” 

“I’ve got it covered.” Bucky huffs a strand of hair out of his face. “Don’t worry about a thing, okay?”

“Alright…” Rebecca says, sounding unconvinced. “You’ll keep me posted?” 

“By the hour.” He retrieves his gum, fumbles it out with his one arm, and pops it out of the case and into his mouth.”

“I mean it James. You tell me as soon as things change, alright?” 

“ _Yes_ , Jesus, I’ll keep you posted.” 

“I don’t like that tone, young man.” Bucky can just barely hear the smile in his sister’s voice. 

“I’m hanging up now.” 

“Tell mom I’ll see her soon.” 

Bucky shoves the phone in his pocket and leans against the wall. He tips his head back, glances up at the too white ceiling, and prays for the sleep he knows he won’t get. He counts down, silently, slowly: _five... four... three... two..._ straightens out, and makes his way back to the room.

 

***

 

By the time Bucky has convinced his mother to go home, it’s already morning. 

He drives her car to her apartment, comes up to clean up the place, take out the trash, change the sheets, then takes a cab from the building to his 2-star hotel. His mother’s apartment is just barely big enough for her - and all hulking six feet of Bucky Barnes barely fits through the doorway. Winifred is understanding, if a little frustrated, but lets her son go without much fuss, with his promise that he’ll return to see her later in the afternoon. 

It’s January in Brooklyn - one of the few months of the year where the weather is considerate enough to match his mood. He closes the cab door behind him, book bag hanging from his shoulder, duffle bag in hand, and looks at the dim outline of the building in the four am darkness of New York for a full minute before shuffling in to reception. 

He gets himself checked in without a fuss, and takes the few minutes he has before going completely unconscious to check his email, scowling at the number of unread messages (142), and at how many of them were from Rumlow (64). He thumbs past the subject lines on his phone — _SPEECH REVISION REQUIRED, SPEECH REVISION REQUIRED, Vacation Request Denied, Research not up to date, SPEECH REVISION REQUIRED._

“Fuck off,” Bucky says into the darkness, tossing his phone into the hotel chair in the corner. He slumps back onto the bed, closes his eyes, and desperately wills himself to sleep. 

Two hours later, the sun rises. 

 

***

 

Bucky settles in the lobby common area at seven o’clock, taking advantage of the better light and the table space to finish his work. His hair is tied up in low bun, and he’s wearing his favourite blue sweater - threadbare from overuse. He’s also wearing his prosthesis this morning - only because he wants to spare himself the peculiar looks from strangers, but the room is blessedly empty - and Bucky begins to suspect that he is the only person currently in the hotel. Dead winter is apparently not prime season for Brooklyn tourists. For the next four hours, he types away on his laptop, and punctuates each new revision with a brief mental image of Governor Pierce choking on a lobster puff at his next charity gala to get him through the morning. It's half past eleven by the time he attaches the revisions in an email. It's of course just as he hits send that the wireless connection goes out. 

The glamorous life of a politician’s speech writer is, apparently, never ending. 

Bucky walks over to the reception desk, eyes on his phone as he types out a barely restrained email to Rumlow. _Revisions en route. By the way, congratulations on making up for your tiny penis with your dick of a personality,_ then resignedly taps delete button. He had to leave five minutes ago to not be late for his mother. He hears someone approach, and doesn’t take his eyes off his phone. 

“Your wifi is out - can you reset your modem or something? I need to send off some emails.”

No response. 

Bucky finishes tapping out the email, then looks up, frustrated. “Did you not hear me, or—” He meets piercing blue eyes, a tuft of blonde hair, a large frame, and a look of pure shock. 

“Bucky?” the man on the other side of the counter says. And Bucky would recognize that voice anywhere. 

“Bucky… it’s me. It’s Steve Rogers.” 

It’s probably only a matter of seconds, but seconds looking at Steve Rogers has always felt like hours, like days, like lifetimes. The cadence of Steve Rogers’ voice curls around Bucky’s veins, vibrating in every bone, registering on a cellular level. He remembers, distantly, and yet so _so_ clearly, the last time he’d heard that voice. _Bucky. It’s Steve Rogers_. 

“I have to go,” Bucky says through numb lips, back-pedalling rapidly to the common area, slamming his laptop shut, and stuffing it hastily into his bookbag. He gathers his papers into a pile, and desperately ignores the repeated calls of _Bucky, Bucky._ He hightails it onto the street, and mercifully, a cab pulls up through the slush. He doesn’t even wait for it to come to a full stop before yanking the door open and slamming it shut, and mumbling out his mother's address.

He tries not to look back, but can’t help but catch a glimpse of Steve in the cab’s rear view mirror, coming out onto the winter street, wearing a plain white, too small, t-shirt. He’s too far away to make out Steve’s face, but when he closes his eyes, slumped in the back seat, he can imagine it, clear as day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://sleepingintheculdesac.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the cab turns the corner to his mother’s street, Bucky’s heart has stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest. He brushes his middle and index finger over the inside of his wrist, and lets the knowledge that he has a pulse be enough to help settle it. The cab rolls unevenly over the ice and slush, grinding to a halt in front of the building. “Twelve-seventy-five.” Startled from his reverie, Bucky looks up, briefly meeting the eyes of the cab driver in the rearview mirror, and throws fifteen down in the passenger seat before clambering out the door and into the Brooklyn chill. 

The sun, which had given its best effort to push through the overcast drudgery of January, was now completely hidden behind a sky of grey. Bucky shifts his bookbag so that it’s slung across his body, and makes his way to the six story building. He grimaces seeing it in the light - rusted pieces of a decrepit former fire escape clinging to the brick wall, white paint peeling from the wall, ice coating the windows. Bucky remembers sitting on the roof with his feet hanging over the edge, watching an endless number of sunsets and sunrises. He resolutely does _not_ remember the tiny slip of a boy who had, for most of those sunsets, been sitting next to him. 

Sleep had done his mother good, though he would never say it to her face. Winifred opens the door and smiles at the sight of her son, the circles under eyes less pronounced, her hair clean and brushed through, and the faint smell of medication and bleach now having dissipated from the apartment. “I made stew,” she says by way of greeting, and Bucky lets her tug him by his good arm to the kitchen, pressing him down in the chair by his shoulder. His back is to the window, and Bucky spares a glance over his shoulder, shuddering involuntarily at the slush and snow gathering on the window sill. 

Without missing a beat, Winifred pulls the curtains shut and turns on the overhead brass light hanging over the kitchen table. Bucky can’t remember ever telling his mother that he hates the cold, but somehow - the way only mothers did - his mother knew. She quickly follows with a bowl of soup, bread and butter, before settling down next to him, quickly says the fore-blessings that had been ingrained in him as a child, and eats. 

The silence is, for a time, punctuated only by the occasional slurp or howl of the wind outside. Bucky is mid-swallow when Winifred finally breaks it. “How did you sleep?”

He gulps down. “Good.” 

“Where are you staying again?” she asks, tearing off another piece of bread.

“Um, the Iron Inn,” he says, looking firmly down at his bowl. 

“Really?” Winifred says, intrigued. “You know, Sarah’s son works there part time. You remember Steve Rogers?” 

Bucky chokes loudly on his bite. 

“Careful, dear, careful,” she says, getting up to grab him a glass of water, setting it in front of him and settling down to finish her last few bites. 

“So, did you see him? Steve Rogers?” Winifred asks. 

Hoarse from the coughing fit, Bucky takes a moment before responding. “Yeah.” 

“That must’ve been nice. You two were so close. Can’t even remember how long it must’ve been… what, four years, five years?” 

“Six,” mutters Bucky, standing suddenly to take his empty plate to the sink. 

“Six years. You don’t say,” Winifred’s voice echoes from behind him. He turns on the sink and rinses off his plate. “What ever happened there?” she asks, sounding suspiciously oblivious. 

Bucky doesn’t answer, instead yanking open the dishwasher, only to find it full of clean dishes. Scowling, he lets his plate clatter in the sink, and begins to empty the top rack. 

“I mean, last I remember, he was calling me out of the blue asking for your address, and next thing you know, Sarah’s telling me you two haven’t spoken in six months.” 

Bucky focuses on pulling the plates out, one at a time, stacking them on the counter, then using his prosthesis to slide them into his right hand. Gently, _gently_ , he places them in the cupboard, then slams the cupboard door shut. 

“Bucky, I can only keep fishing for so long. I’m not getting any younger.” 

“We just haven’t talked in awhile, that’s all,” Bucky says, grabbing the mugs, one at a time, and sliding them into their rightful place on the other side of the kitchen. 

Winifred sighs. “When you were in high school, you wouldn’t even go with us on vacation for longer than a week if it meant you’d have to spend more than a week apart from Steve Rogers.” 

“Not in high school anymore,” Bucky says, trying to ease the tension building in his spine. “Can we talk about something else?” 

Bucky doesn’t miss the second sigh. Winifred comes up to the kitchen sink to rinse her plate. “I’m just worried about you, hon. You never talk about any friends. You never mention any partners. You never take time off—”

“I’m _busy_ ,” Bucky says, and slams another cupboard. Winifred, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. “It’s hard enough getting a job like this,” he says, gesturing to his prosthesis with his right hand, “Of course I’m going to do what I can to keep the one I have.”

“You need to take care of yourself too,” Winifred shuts off the water, and turns so her back is to the sink. A brief flicker of sunlight pours through the window above the sink, momentarily surrounding his mother in a dim glow, before disappearing just as promptly. Bucky rolls his eyes, and reaches for the wine glass, hovering precariously at the back of the dishwasher. He sets it on the counter, but doesn’t let go, turning to meet his mother’s gaze. “Let the occasional person come within arm’s reach, you know?” 

“Fine.” The word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, sharp and jagged. “Fine. Now can we change the subject?” 

Winifred’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes. Distantly, a buzzer goes off. “Saved by the laundry,” she says, wiping her hands dry on her sweater and easing past Bucky, around the corner and down the hall. 

Bucky waits for his mother to leave the room completely before allowing himself to exhale fully. Stinging tears prick at the corner of his eyes. His hand is clenched around the stem of the wine glass, eyes clenched shut, the reverberating thrum of a deep set voice surrounding him like an echo chamber. 

_Bucky, it’s Steve Rogers_.

_Bucky…_

 

_Bucky…_

 

 

_Bucky…_

 

He opens his eyes, and isn’t surprised at the sight of shattered glass. 

 

***

_— Steve is 7. Bucky is 8 —_

 

“Bucky?”

“It’s short for Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. But I just like Bucky.” Two boys are perched on the gravel rooftop. Bucky is careful to keep his distance from the tiny blonde boy he’d stumbled upon when he’d made his escape to the roof. Since his sister had shown him how to get up here last week, he’d never seen anyone else here. He swallows down the bitterness that’s risen in his throat at the realization that this roof isn’t _his_ secret place, and instead allows himself to be curious as to what this boy was doing here to begin with. 

“I used to live here,” the boy says simply, as though plucking the question right from Bucky’s head and laying it bare for the world to see. “Now I live…. there,” he says, squinting in the sunset, pointing to a series of buildings blocks away. Bucky can only make out their silhouettes.

“Oh,” says Bucky. It doesn’t answer the question. But Bucky, who had just moved into this building a month ago, bristles at the thought that this spot had been someone else’s first. 

“I don’t really like it there though. The neighbours have a baby and it cries all the time. But dad said it’s bigger there, so.” 

Bucky says nothing. He’s trying his best not to look at the boy’s face, where a bruise is clearly blossoming on his jaw. He instead looks down at both of their shoes - the boys’ scuffed and covered in grime and dirt. 

“Why are you up here?” the boy asks suddenly. Bucky wants to be defensive, but from the sound of it, this had been the blonde’s roof first. 

“My dad gets angry a lot.” Bucky looks directly into the bleeding sun, mercifully blinding. “My sister told me to come up here when it gets loud.” 

“Because you’re scared?” the boy asks. 

“No!” Bucky says hotly. “Not _scared_.”

“It’s okay,” the boy replies, with a delicate gentleness that felt so unfamiliar it makes Bucky meet the boy’s eyes, if only to make sure he was still the one speaking. “It’s okay to be scared. My mom says that all the time.”

“Why, are _you_ scared?” 

“Yeah,” the boy says. “I’m scared of the dark. And of monsters. I’m scared of my dad not coming back home. I’m scared of being alone. I’m scared of some of the bigger kids.” Bucky watches the boy swallow a lump in his throat. “But mom says that everyone’s scared and that we should learn to face our fears.” The boy involuntarily brings his fingertips up to his slightly swollen jaw, then brings his hand back down quickly, like he’s touched hot coal. 

For one brief, forgiving moment, there’s nothing between them but a breeze. Bucky forces the question past his lips. “How… do you do that?”

The boy flashes bright blue eyes at Bucky, who, completely unprepared for the intensity of the gaze, immediately looks away. The boy follows suit, tucking a knee to his chest and looking out into the horizon. “My mom says, when something scares me, to take a deep breath, and count down from ten.”

Bucky peers at the boy through one eye, and makes a face. “Then what?”

The boy sighs a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t really know,” he admits. “But she’s never been wrong before.”

There is no one on the planet more trustworthy that Bucky’s mother. On that note, he can relate. “I’m still not scared,” Bucky says stubbornly. 

“Okay Bucky,” the boy says simply. He straightens out his legs and leans back on his hands. Bucky watches him press his palms into the gravel, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, so Bucky waits a beat and does the same, revelling the feeling of dirt and sand under his fingernails.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Bucky finally asks, when the breeze has blown past, and all that’s left is the weight of all the words they haven’t said. 

“It’s Steve,” the boy says, like Bucky should know it already. Part of him feels like he does. “Steve Rogers.” 

 

***

It’s eleven at night by the time Bucky’s made it back to the hotel. He feels the thickness of the hospital air still on him as he fumbles in the dark, out of the cab, and into the brightness of the lobby. 

There’s no use wasting energy in being surprise at the sight of Steve Rogers. As soon as the bell overhead rings, Steve straightens, dropping whatever book he’s holding with a _thud_ on the table before him. Bucky lets his hair fall like a curtain between them, and takes five long strides to the stairs. 

“Bucky, wait—” There was a time when Bucky had thought it impossible to ignore that voice, to ignore the hitch in his breath, to ignore the _sound_ of him, an all-encompassing sound that left him feeling like a man out of time. 

“I’m checking out,” Bucky says.

“ _Don’t_ , please,” Steve says, scrambling out from behind the desk and following Bucky up the stairs.

Bucky takes the stairs two at a time.

“Would you please just talk to me for a second?” Steve asks, keeping pace at every turn. Bucky has a sudden surge of annoyance at the lack of an elevator, and bitterly think that it's a damn good thing he isn't missing a leg.

“No.” 

“ _Bucky_.” They arrive at the third floor, and Steve sounds breathless, but from the look of him, impossibly large, impossibly strong, impossibly _Steve,_ it isn’t because of the stairs. 

“Leave me alone, Rogers,” he says, fumbling with the key to his room. 

“I will. I _will._ Okay?” Bucky stops, hand resting on the key in the door, and leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door. 

“Look,” Steve says. Bucky doesn’t dare move, and hears the rustle of fabric, feels Steve taking a step back, giving him more space than he needs, more space than he deserves. “I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.” 

There was a time when Steve’s breath would rattle with every other sentence. He talked like he’d just ran a marathon. He breathed like with every breath, he was moving mountains. But now, his voice is steady and even. Memory is fleeting. Reality, even more so. 

It’s taking everything Bucky has to stay still. He feels himself vibrating under his skin.

“Don’t go. It’s late. We’re the most affordable place, 30 miles in any direction. It’s supposed to snow tonight. Just… stay." Bucky inhales sharply. _Don't cry_ , he thinks.  _Don't you dare cry._  "I’ll leave you alone," Steve says. "I promise."

_eight, seven, six, five…_

“Fine.” He turns the key hastily, and pushes the door open. 

“Do you need any—”

“No.” Bucky says, turning on his heel and meeting Steve’s eyes. He’s drowning in forgiveness and apology. 

“Can I get—”

“ _No._ ” He swings the door shut. Where there were once piercing blue eyes, there’s darkness. 

Bucky, for one, has never been afraid of the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://sleepingintheculdesac.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please watch the added warnings! (particularly for panic attacks).

Heavy breathing. Eyes wide. Covered in a cold sweat. It takes him a full minute to realize that he’s no longer in the nightmare.

Bucky fumbles for the lamp on the bedside table, arching his arm uncomfortably under the lampshade to find the switch. Light floods the room in a hazy yellow. The migraine that he’d gone to bed with had unsurprisingly gotten worse, and he knows that he’d thrown some ibuprofen in his bag on his way out the door of his Raleigh apartment, but the thought of rummaging through his unpacked duffel bag lying on the floor is vastly unappealing. Of all the joyous sensations he’s currently experiencing, the shortness of his breath is what clues him in: this is a panic attack. 

He knows what his former therapist would say to do in this situation. _Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste._

He’s got the last one down, at least. Metallic, copper, bitter and red. Slowly, he brings his finger to the tip of his tongue, and back down to see blood. He must’ve bitten down in his sleep. His jaw still feels clenched. 

Bucky closes his eyes, and the dream comes back in flashes. The screech of tires on wet asphalt. The shattered glass. The surging pain. The sudden black. Throughout the scenes of blood and screams, flashes of his mother already grieving, his father already dead, and of course, the persistent eyes of Steve Rogers. 

Bucky decides that now is not a good time to close his eyes. 

What he needs is a distraction. He yanks his phone off the nightstand to detach it from the power cord, slumps back in the bed, barely blinks at the time (3:03am), and settles for mindlessly scrolling through his Facebook. Bucky has never been one for keeping in touch, never mind using Facebook to do it, but the videos that showcase seventeen different ways to make a brownie are nothing if not entertaining.

Thumbing past a blur of animal videos and vacation pictures, he stops at a video clip shared by Jim Morita, a college friend whom he hasn’t seen in years. Suppressing the guilt at that realization is easier than he should be. Morita’s smiling profile picture is a stark contrast to his caption: _Pierce’s Anti-LGBT law is using public safety as a front for discrimination. This is a bigger issue than transgender folks not being able to use the restroom._ The thumbnail is a shot of Alexander Pierce at the podium of a press conference. It’s dated for last night. 

There is no part of Bucky that wants to hit play. And yet seconds later, he’s cringing at the sound of Pierce’s voice - amplified by the surrounding silence.

“In the fifty-plus years that I’ve lived in North Carolina, it has been made apparent to me that the people of this state have the utmost respect for each other and for their differences. Time and time again, we’ve put those differences aside to find solutions.” Pierce pauses, gaze shifting from one side of the room to the other. 

“I’ve also witnessed politicians who have, sadly, exploited differences to divide us. These are politicians who have demonized our state for political gain.” The lump forming in Bucky’s throat suddenly becomes impossible to swallow. 

“The issue at hand is not what our President, other city councillors and mayors, or even our Attorney General would have you believe. This is not an issue of difference and discrimination. This is an issue of privacy and safety. Men, women, and children have a right to this basic safety in our public restrooms and change rooms.”

Bucky quickly exits out and tosses his phone to the side. Rolling out of bed, he stumbles to the bathroom, bending over the toilet just in time to vomit. Strands of his hair stick uncomfortably to the side of his face. He dry heaves for a minute longer before finally pushing away and slumping against the bathroom wall, chest rising and falling like a violent tide. 

He doesn’t need to finish listening to that speech to know how it ends; he’s the one that wrote it, after all. 

 

***

“Room service!” 

The voice is muffled through the other side of the door. Face down in the bed, voice groggy from disuse, Bucky is in no condition to be interacting with anyone. He’d fallen back asleep just before sunrise, and had been mercifully unconscious since. Before he can let out a half-hearted ‘come back later,’ light from the outside hallway floods the room. 

“Oh, sorry,” says the voice that doesn’t sound particularly sorry. Bucky looks up from his bed to dimly make out a blurry haze, a figure standing at the side of his bed. “So, you must be Bucky.” 

Bucky rolls over and opens his eyes fully, but the voice is gone. He rolls onto his other side just in time to see the figure throw open the curtains. The third floor of the hotel isn’t exactly the best place to see the New York skyline, but it’s got a prime view of the sheer white blanket that’s covered the city overnight. The sound that emits from Bucky’s mouth is inhuman. 

“Not a morning person, then?” Bucky wants to flip this man the bird, but his arm has gone slightly numb from falling asleep on it at a funny angle. He settles for another noise. “Not that you can call two o'clock ‘morning’ exactly, but it’s okay, no judgment.” 

He’s not fully awake, but it’s two in the afternoon, and he has a six o’clock deadline, so now he has to be. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair to comb out the knots. He briefly thanks whatever deity that he thought to wear pants last night, and dimly wishes he’d had the same luck with regards to his shirt. His arm, or rather, lack thereof is completely visible, cut off just above where an elbow should be. It’s hopelessly scared along the remaining arm and shoulder. This doesn’t seem to give the man pause, however. 

“I’m Pietro,” the man says helpfully as he gathers the garbage from the room. He’s a little smaller, more slender than Bucky, with bright blonde hair - almost white - that’s completely dark at the roots. He’s wearing a burgundy shirt with the words ‘Unicorn Swag’ emblazoned in a faded yellow. Bucky makes out an eastern european accent, but can’t place it. “We have a mutual acquaintance.” 

Bucky says nothing, not trusting his voice to function properly this early in the morning. 

“I know Steve from school. Brooklyn College. M.F.A buddies. I’m in cinematography.” He picks up the prosthetic arm propped up on the wall by the window to do a visual inspection of the carpet below, then sets it back down. “Where do you know him from?”

Bucky coughs out the hoarseness in his throat, his eyes following Pietro from one end of the room to the other. He disappears in the bathroom with a host of cleaning products. “I, uh, don’t suppose your boss cares about you barging in on your guests?” 

“Guest,” corrects Pietro. “You’re the only one here.” He hears water running behind the closed door, a flush, then the man barges out of the bathroom a quick moment later. “Stark couldn’t give a crap what we do. Couldn’t you figure that out from the dress code?” He gestures to his shirt, then disappears out the front door of the room. Bucky, still sitting up, can hear him rustling outside, presumably with a cleaning cart, then quick as flash, finds him standing at the foot of the bed holding sheets. He tugs on Bucky’s blanket with one hand. “You mind?” 

Bucky must be operating on autopilot at this point. There’s no other way to explain why acquiesces without a fuss, shifting out of bed and standing with his back to the window, allowing Pietro to strip the sheets. 

“So, where do you know Cap from?” 

Bucky’s brow furrows in confusion. “Cap?” It’s too damn early for this. 

“Yeah. Sorry, Rogers. We call him Cap. He’s a little bossy. But we let him get away with it, because he’s good people. And he makes sure Tony doesn’t forget to pay us.” 

Bucky takes a moment to process this. “You said you know St— you know him from school?” 

“M.F.A. - Masters in Fine Arts,” Pietro repeats. Even though he’s moving too fast to make eye contact, Bucky gets the sense that he’s being talked down to. Pietro walks around the mattress so he’s standing opposite from Bucky, tugging on the bedsheets. “Most of us who work here are in that camp - slowly losing our souls to graduate school, that sort of thing. Tony Stark bought this place as a pet project, lets a bunch of his friends work here and pays us for the privilege. I mean, I say _friends_ ,” Pietro rolls his eyes, giving Bucky a knowing look. “We’re not that close, but I’m not going to turn my nose up at a job, you know.” He’s talking a mile a minute, forcing the pillows into new sheets with an unprecedented efficiency.

The frown forming on Bucky’s face is totally unconscious. He knows of course of Stark Industries - a multi-billion dollar tech corporation. He thinks he remembers Steve mentioning Tony Stark once or twice years ago - but he’d never had any sense that they were, well, friends.

Then again, there had been a lot Bucky didn’t know about Steve Rogers. 

“So, you know him from college?” Pietro presses. Bucky shakes his head. “High school?” Another shake. “Not high school. Did you date?” 

“Why do you need to know?” Bucky growls, exasperated. He picks up his duffle bag from the ground and tosses it carelessly on the chair, rummaging through it for clothes. 

“Geez, you’re even touchier than he is,” Pietro replies, unfazed. “I mean, we all heard your three-storey spat last night. You can’t blame us for being curious.” He returns to the foot of the bed, grabs the blanket, and whips it out with both hands to unfold it across the bed. He does a final walk around to smooth out the surface and tuck in the sheets. 

“What did—” Bucky cuts himself off, then forces himself to press on. “What did Steve say. About where he knows me from?” 

Pietro reaches in his pocket to pull out a quarter and bounces it on the bed. “He said you were Bucky.” 

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose. “That it?” 

“Yes, that’s all he said,” Pietro said, gathering the quarter and stuffing it back in his pocket. “What he _didn’t_ say though - far more interesting.” He flashes Bucky a wink, and smoothly makes his way to the door. “See you around Bucky.”

The door clicks shut, and Bucky releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Inhale. Exhale. _Six, five, four, three…_

Bucky cracks his neck, throws on a shirt, and reaches for his laptop on the bedside table. Time to get to work. 

 

***

 

\- _Steve is 16, Bucky is 17 -_

Steve enters Bucky’s room without announcing himself, and tosses a stack of papers held together by a binder clip on the foot of Bucky’s bed before plopping down on the bed himself. Bucky distantly remembers a time when he’d been too self-conscious to let Steve on his bed. The mattress was old and lumpy and uncomfortable. But Steve was never the type to care about that sort of thing, and never brought it up, so neither did Bucky. 

“What’re these?” Bucky says, getting up from his desk, happy to abandon his calculus. 

“Emerson, Southern California, Northwestern, Maryland, Boston, Texas, Missouri,” Steve recites, folding his arms behind his hand and propping his neck up on a pillow so he can meet Bucky’s eye. “Best journalism schools in the country.”

Bucky makes a face. 

“Don’t give me that. You only have a couple months to apply. Get this shit done.” 

“I’m not leaving New York, Steve. I mean, California? Jesus.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Steve says, not at all seriously. 

“Good thing I’m Jewish,” Bucky says. He flicks past the pages of brochures and applications. “Where did you get these anyway?” 

“At my school’s college fair,” Steve replies. “You didn’t go to yours, I’m assuming?” 

“Nope,” Bucky says, popping the p and settling back down in his desk chair, taking the applications with him. 

Steve eyes Bucky from his place on the bed, and Bucky resolutely doesn’t make eye contact. “There’re some scholarship applications in the back,” he says easily. 

Bucky wanted to throw them in the trash, set them on fire, forget the whole thing. He wants toss them straight out the window, he and Steve leaning over the edge to watch them scatter in the street. He wants to turn into Steve - impossibly small and large at the same time - press his nose into Steve’s neck, bring Steve’s hands to his waist, disappear in everything Steve has and is willing to give— 

“I’m not leaving New York,” he says firmly, setting them on the desk. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’d only be for a few years. Hardly no time at all.”

“Oh, is _that_ how long it takes?” Bucky says, fighting the half-smile forming on his face. The whole thing is so _Steve_ \- naive, lumbering Steve who dreams too big for himself and has to loop Bucky in on his impossible hopes too.

“Yeah. And who knows, maybe next year I’ll follow you.” 

The smile grows. “Even to California? 

“Sure. Cowabunga dude.”

“Is that what they say in California?” 

“Obviously. You sure you want to be a journalist? Seems like you haven’t mastered the ‘research’ part of it.” Steve grins, only to be knocked over by the sudden hit of a pillow.

Steve sits up, spluttering. “I’m asthmatic. You can’t just throw pillows at me.” 

Bucky grins, picking up the pillow that’s fallen on to the ground. “There’s punk with face full of pillow that says otherwise.” 

Out in the hallway, a door slams with a reverberating force, and Bucky drops the pillow instantly, whipping his head to his bedroom door. 

“Winifred? The hell are you?” The unmistakeable voice of his father echoes through the apartment. His eyes are on the crack beneath the door, watching for shadows. Bucky doesn’t hear his mother’s reply, but he does hear the sudden shatter of broken glass. 

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the bedroom door, ready for it to spring open. He doesn’t look down either, but he think he can feel the beginning of roots springing from the ground, holding him in place, curling around his feet and ankles. 

A soft hand slips in his, gives him a firm tug, and just like that, the roots fall away. “C’mon,” Steve murmurs, pulling Bucky towards the fire escape. 

When they’ve dropped to the ground and distanced themselves a couple of blocks, Bucky finds his voice.

“You’ll follow me?” he asks. Deep in his coat pocket, his hands are clenched into fists. 

Steve nudges Bucky with his shoulder, flashes the boy a smile. “You go where you need to go, Buck. I’ll be right behind you.” 

 

***

 

His father flatlines at 8:04pm for 173 seconds.

For 173 seconds, Bucky had thought it was over. Now he's back again, waiting somewhere between the beginning and the end. He’s still breathing through a world of contrasts: of feeling weighted down into the deep earth below, and feeling so light a small huff of a breath would be enough to send him soaring. In reality of course he’s somewhere in the middle between falling and flying, and the movement from waiting room to waiting room, from taxi to taxi, it’s all meaningless anyway. 

He drops his mother off at home, takes a cab to the hotel, and fights back a yawn. He’s bone tired, depleted of every sense of energy he has. But Pierce has an interview tomorrow evening, and they’ve done him the grace of sending the questions to him ahead of time because that’s how right wing media treats honoured guests like Pierce, which means that there’s plenty of time for Bucky to bullshit all the right answers. 

There’s no use in going upstairs to his room - the sight of the bed would be far too tempting. He settles in the common area, sets his laptop on the table, and adjusts his prosthetic so his index finger is extended. It’s not the most efficient way to type, but it beats typing with one hand. 

Around midnight, he hears someone clear their throat. 

Bucky looks up from the screen. Steve is carrying a mug. His eyes follow the steam, rising from the cup, disappearing into the air.

“I don’t know if you ever started drinking coffee, but you’d never turned your nose up to tea before, so…” he trails off, sounding more uncertain than Bucky’s ever heard him, before setting the tea down. 

Bucky looks at the tea, then turns his eyes back to the screen. Even before Steve grew, he’d always taken up all of Bucky’s vision, and it was more of a challenge than ever to try and ignore the sight of him now. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, genuinely confused. 

“Pretend like you know me anymore. We haven’t spoken in years. I could be a serial killer for all you know.”

“Are you?”

“Not the point, Rogers.” Bucky resumes typing, and for a while, all that can be heard is the sound of the heater and the clack of the keyboard. 

“I know you,” Steve says finally. 

Bucky exhales slowly through pursed lips, but doesn’t look away from his keyboard. “Do you now?” 

“You’re a speechwriter for Governor Pierce in North Carolina,” Steve says.

“Been talking to my mother, have you?”

Steve ignores him, “But you’ve been publishing pieces in the Charlotte Observer criticizing Pierce under the initials W.S for the past two years.” Bucky finally looks up and meets Steve’s eyes. Immediately he wants to look away. 

“You watch all of the new Star Trek movies, but you wait until they’ve been out for a month so you can go on a weekday matinee when the theatre is empty. You think shoes with laces are tripping hazards. You’re afraid of heights but you like the adrenaline rush of falling. You hate being cold. People think it’s because of your car accident, but really it’s because of the month they cut the heat in your unit and your mom got pneumonia when you were twelve.” 

“Stop,” Bucky says softly. He looks down into the ground. “Just stop.” 

Steve falls quiet. 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels the throb of an oncoming headache already. His eyes are watering with exhaustion and, maybe, a little desperation. “We’re not friends,” he says finally. “We’re not close. We’re not on good terms. Just… just drop it.”

Steve shifts from one foot to the other. His hands are hanging down by his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Bucky can see him, out of the corner of his eye, fight the instinct to reach out and grab Bucky’s shoulder. He feels the ghost of a hand there regardless. 

“I know you, Bucky,” Steve says resolutely, with all the conviction he can muster. “I wasn’t ready to drop it then and I’m not ready to drop it now.” He swallows. “But I know you have work to do, so I’ll leave you alone.” He turns and makes his way out of the common area. Just as he’s about to turn, he stops, and nods to the tea. “You still take it with two sugars, right?” 

Bucky’s eyes drop to the mug, then back to Steve. He says nothing, eyeing the back of the man’s head, and waits for Steve to fully disappear around the corner before reaching for the mug, and taking a sip. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following along. Comments are, as always, that which fuels the fires. 
> 
> It's also worth noting that the speeches and policies attributed to Pierce are pulled from the [real life governor of North Carolina](https://thinkprogress.org/pat-mccrory-promises-retaliation-if-charlotte-approves-lgbt-protections-851a66d42fc4#.xryj44ggj.com/), who imo is kind of a real life villain in of himself. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://sleepingintheculdesac.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple more warnings have been added for this chapter. Please read before proceeding!

When Bucky wakes up just before sunrise the next morning, not even the momentary reprise of bullshit breathing exercises are enough to distract his from the fact that he’s as hard as he’s been in ages. It’s not the first time a dream has woken him up in the middle of the night, but it is the first time in a while that it’s been for _this_ reason. 

He glares down at the tent in his pyjamas with a sense of betrayal, breathing slowly, willing the sensation to pass, but when, five minutes later, he finds himself in the same predicament, he resignedly flops back on the bed, pressing the back of his head against the flat of the mattress, and recalls the last moments of the dream that had brought him to this point. 

_Steve touches his lips to Bucky’s, slides his tongue along Bucky’s lower lip, mouths along Bucky’s jaw to his neck_. 

He’s full of self loathing when he takes his dick in hand, smearing pre-come along the length, but the guilt isn’t enough to keep him from closing his eyes, to pretend that it’s someone else’s hand instead of his own. 

_“Sweetheart,_ ” _Steve says. His hands move down the length of Bucky’s body. “You’re so good. You’re so good for me…”_

This, Bucky thinks distantly, is one of the real pains of having one arm - he can finger himself or jerk himself off but not both. It’s embarrassingly easy to hang on to the remnants of the his dream. His eyes scrunch up, and his hand quickens, like it’s a race to come before the dream disappears from his memory entirely.

_“Bucky,” Steve says his name like a prayer. His hands are everywhere at once. Bucky is vibrating with need. Steve presses a kiss to his collarbone, tightens his hand around Bucky’s cock, and murmurs into his skin. “I know you…”_

He’s breathing hard, and waits until he’s done coming before he opens his eyes, not quite ready to leave the dream behind. 

The thing is, Bucky’s been down this road before, and he knows how it ends: with Steve’s sad eyes and Bucky’s frustrated hopelessness and everything good between them shattered and irreparably damaged. The last time he’d ever even _considered_ thinking about Steve in _that_ way… Well he’d been young enough to be to be making stupid decisions. Apparently, hopeless naivety wasn’t something he’d grown out of. 

Bucky reaches to the bedside table for a tissue, and wipes his hand and dick idly, scrunching up the tissue and lifting his head off the bed to aim for the trash. He, of course, misses. His head flops back down on the mattress. 

He’s done this before, and he can do it again. Getting over Steve Rogers hadn’t been easy the first time, but he’s had years of practice in repression since then. It doesn’t matter that he’s been closer to Steve than he has been in practically a decade. It doesn’t matter that dealing with his family is stirring up all kinds of emotions he’d thought were long since past. It doesn’t matter that Steve apparently follows him closely enough to know that he’s writing articles for the fucking Charlotte Observer, when not even the editor of the Charlotte Observer knows who he is. None of it _fucking_ matters. The bottom line is this: there’s no part of him that wants to want Steve Rogers. 

_Bucky… sweetheart… I know you._

He hates how easy it is to want Steve Rogers.

 

*** 

 

— _Steve is 17, Bucky is 18 —_

“We gather here today to celebrate the life of Joseph Rogers, who has returned to his home with our God, the Father. On behalf of the Rogers family, I would like to thank you all for coming. The number of people present here today speaks volumes about the impact Joseph had on so many of us.” 

Bucky pulls at his tie to loosen it, and risks a glance over to the pew in front of him, away from the priest, to the back of Steve’s head. He cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. He’d flown in from Texas late last night; he’d had to defer one exam, but there was no question of missing Steve’s dad’s funeral. Still, he hasn’t even had so much as a chance to talk to Steve since landing, let alone get a good look at him, but as he tries to catch a good angle, a firm hand on his shoulder presses him back down into the pew. He looks up to meet his mother’s eye, then sighs, turning back to the front of the church. 

“Joseph’s passing reminds us that the purpose of life is to love, know, and serve God. As dedicated member of this community, faithful husband, and loving father, many of us can speak to the many ways Joseph served our Father during his life.” 

At the mention of the word father, Bucky’s eyes glance back up to the back of Steve’s head. He’s hasn’t moved so much as an inch in the past thirty minutes, other than to breathe. Bucky lifts up off the seat slightly to see Steve’s fists clenched in his lap, and is immediately pushed back down by his mother, who gives him a firm, disapproving look. 

“…and as we pray for Joseph today, I would also like to remember him as a child of God.” 

Bucky is Jewish, but he and Steve have talked to no end about the similarities between that particular train of thought. _Good thing we’ve got a backup dad to count on,_ Steve had said once, _seeing as the ones we’ve got are kind of shit._

“Please rise.” 

Bucky stands, his eyes trained on Steve, who, for the first time all day, finally uses the rustle of a crowded church to spare a glance back and meet Bucky’s gaze. His eyes are red around the edges, and his hair is a little disheveled, but he still manages the smallest hint of a smile before turning around. It’s enough for Bucky to let out a breath of relief. 

“And now, the Lord’s prayer…”

 

 

After the internment (a bleak affair consisting of Steve, his mother, a handful of relatives, and stoically, Bucky, standing out in the bitter December cold while they lowered Joseph Rogers’ casket in the ground) there’s the wake back at the church hall; and of course, everyone who had conveniently disappeared for the hour they’d spent out in the snow had somehow managed to get the memo about this. Bucky watches from the corner of the room while unfamiliar face after unfamiliar face find Steve, standing next to his mother, to pay their respects. 

“You look just like him,” one woman says, and Bucky scoffs loudly, glancing at the funeral program in his hand. The man staring back at him is dark hair, with a thick moustache, stocky, and broad. Steve looks nothing like him. 

Bucky feels a small tug on his jacket sleeve, looking up to meet Winifred’s gaze, who tells him she’s heading home, and to please call when he leaves, and not to stay out too late. Bucky nods impatiently, gives his assurances, and as Winifred navigates the crowd to the exit, he turns back to Steve, only to find that he’s disappeared. 

His eyes dart around the room, from door to door, finally spotting a door at the end that’s slowly, and silently, closing shut. Bucky wastes no time, deftly moving through the crowd, slipping past the blur of smiles and sympathies, creaks the door open before it closes completely, and slips out of the hall. 

“Steve?” he whispers into the dark hallway, but no response. Slowly, Bucky moves through the church, finally seeing a light around the corner, and quickening his pace. He pulls his tie off entirely, and slows his steps as he turns the corner into the main room. “Steve? You here?” 

The sanctuary at the front of Catholic churches had always been pretty foreboding to Bucky, but he could appreciate the aesthetic of some twenty lit candles, flickering reflections in stain glass windows; he could even look past the enormity of the wooden cross hanging over head. The room was mostly dark, save for the candlelight. And there, at the front pew, was that same tuft of blonde hair Bucky could recognize from miles away. 

Bucky walks along the aisle between the pews, his tie in hand, dragging just slightly on the floor. Finally reaching the front, he swallows, and sits down next to Steve Rogers, saying nothing. 

Steve, as always, is the first to break the silence. “My mom is sick. Cancer.” 

Bucky frowns, trying to catch Steve’s eye. He’d known that Steve’s dad had been sick for some time. Had even known that Steve was almost expecting his dad to die. He thinks about preparing for an oncoming storm, having your eye trained on the dark clouds ahead, only to be swept up by a tornado from behind you. Steve's eyes are filled to the brim with tears. 

Now that Bucky has a chance to really look at Steve, he’s noticing things that hadn’t been there months before he’d left for the University of Texas. Steve is… heartier. Healthier. He’d been doing some new treatment for his lungs all summer, and clearly it's paying off. He's starting to fill out his frame, no longer looks like a strong breeze could blow him away. But for all the bulk he was finally starting to keep, he looks more worn out than ever. 

“She’s saying it’s going to be fine. They caught it early and all that. But.” Steve stops mid-sentence to collect himself, then presses on. “She has to have surgery. And then if it doesn’t go away she’ll have to do chemo. And I just.” He turns to look at Bucky. “I have to be here. I’m all she’s got now.” 

Bucky nods, turning back away from Steve and looking out into the candlelight. He and Steve had been talking for over a year now, about Steve following him for school. And even when Bucky had gotten his scholarship for the University of Texas, Steve had stood firm. _Austin isn’t typical Texas_ , he said. _I can deal with Austin_. But there had always been a part of Bucky that was holding his breath. And to hear Steve confirm it now… Bucky doesn’t even have it in him to be surprised. 

“Of course,” Bucky says finally. He puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and squeezes, the way his mother always does. He doesn’t think he does as good a job of comforting. “Steve, of course you have to stay. It’ll be alright.” 

Steve nods. “It’s been…” his breath hitches. “It’s been hard. With you gone.” 

Bucky swallows, tries to breathe through the sudden clench in his heart. “But not impossible," he says, like he's half convincing himself. "And I’ll be back, you know. In the summer.” He drops his hand from Steve’s shoulder. “Besides, I’m here now - for practically a whole month. That’s something, right?” 

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says. His face disappears in and out of the shadows from the candlelight. “You’re here now.” 

 

***

 

“What have you even been doing all day?” Rebecca’s sounds far away, and not only because she’s calling from San Francisco. 

“Do you have me on speaker again?” Bucky asks, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder while he pushes quarter after quarter into the hospital vending machine. 

“It’s hard enough changing a diaper without also having to worry about dropping my phone,” Rebecca replies curtly, pausing to coo at her baby. Her next sentence is inaudible. 

“What?” he asks, frustrated. The machine isn’t taking his quarter, and he’s ready to punch through it with his robot hand. At least that would make his prosthetic good for something. 

“I _said,_ stop being boring.” She sounds out of breath, but no longer echoey. Bucky finally gives up on his quarter and is rummaging through his pocket for dimes. 

“I’m not being boring, Becs, I’m being an adult,” he replies, holding up a dime victoriously and pushing it violently into the machine. “I get work done during the day, meet Mom for lunch, take her to the hospital, hang out here for hours, take her home, sleep, repeat.” 

“You haven’t been back home in years. Take a break from your work and do something.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Like what?” 

“Hell, I don’t know. Let off some steam. Go grab a drink. Go dancing. Find a bingo hall.” 

“Hardy har har.” 

Rebecca sighs, and her voice softens. “I just… hate the idea of you watching mom watching dad and being all depressed.” 

“He’s dying, Becs, there isn’t exactly much to be jumping up for joy about.” 

“I know that,” she scolds. Ever the big sister. “I’m not saying be insensitive about it, but just… don’t just sit there and dwell. Go do something.” 

Bucky sighs. He’s never smoked, but he feels like he understands people who do. He punches in the code for a chocolate bar, and watches the machine come to life. 

“Think about it, okay?” 

The chocolate bar gets stuck in the metal coil. Bucky sighs, and kicks the machine. It doesn’t budge. 

“How’s she doing?” Rebecca asks, apparently taking Bucky’s lack of response as an adequate response.

Bucky turns his back to to the machine and navigates aimlessly down the hospital hall. “She’s fine, I guess? She’s not really talking about it.” 

“Oh, so is that where you get it from?” The sarcasm is evident even over the phone. 

“I talk plenty,” Bucky says. He gently hides his prosthetic hand in his pocket - even though it’s gloved, he can’t shake the sense that people are staring as long as he has it on. 

“And he’s…” 

“Just… the same.” Bucky shrugs. “His whole body’s a mess. Liver, kidney, lungs—” 

“Do they know if he’s in pain?”

“No, I’m pretty sure years of heavy drinking numbed him to that experience.” 

“James Buchanan—”

“Damnit, Rebecca, don’t middle name me. I’m not saying this shit to mom. It’s fine.” 

Bucky hears her sighing on the other end. For a moment, neither of them say anything. He has to strain his ears, but he doesn’t miss a baby crying in the background. 

“Go take care of Jamie.” 

Another sigh. “Call me if you need anything”

Bucky holds the phone to his ear for a couple seconds after his sister hangs up, and, for the briefest moment, soaks up the merciful silence. 

 

*** 

 

Bucky tries to catch sight of who’s working the front desk through the window of the Iron Inn, but the fog and snow and frost make it impossible to see. He pushes the door open, and, upon seeing a red-haired woman, he lets out a slow breath and continues in. He wipes the snow from his boots, and shakes it from his hair, loosening some stubborn strands out of his tie in the process. It’s stunningly quiet without the howl of the wind. The woman in question is leaning against the desk, flipping through a magazine. He can hear her chewing her gum from the other end of the room. 

Bucky approaches the desk, clears his throat, and sets his book bag on the counter. 

She ignores him. 

“I need to extend my stay,” he says. 

She holds up a finger — gracing Bucky with the sight of her chipped orange red nail polish — and finishes reading to the end of the page. 

Bucky taps the finger of his right hand impatiently on the counter. The woman, to her credit, seems unperturbed.

“Good read,” she says drily, finally looking up. “Shame to put it away.” 

The look Bucky gives the woman is one of sheer incredulity, but the woman looks unfazed. “You get what you pay for here,” she says, straightening up and shaking the mouse of the computer to wake it up, and she's suddenly surrounded by the harsh glow of the screen. “You’re extending your stay?”

“Yes.” 

“For how long?”

“Five more nights.”

The woman types without making eye contact with Bucky. “We’re going to have to bump the Russian prime minister, he’s pretty fond of that room.”

“Really?” Bucky asks, pulling out his credit card and sliding it across the desk.

“Nope,” she replies, taking the card and swiping it through. She waits for the machine, unperturbed by the awkward pause. 

“I thought Russia had a president,” he says, mostly to break the silence. 

“They have both,” the woman replies curtly. She pops her gum.

More silence. She frowns at the computer screen for the moment, then sighs exasperatedly. “The system is rebooting - hold on.” She ducks under the desk for a moment, and from this angle, Bucky can see the screen flicker on, then off. The woman reappears in a flash of red, then resumes her lean against the desk, pulling the article back to her, apparently settling in for a long wait.

“You also go to Brooklyn College?” he asks, and immediately hates himself for asking. What does it matter, if this woman goes to Brooklyn College. If she knows Steve. If she gets to be close to Steve. 

The woman licks her finger, and flips a page. “Ballet,” she says, by way of response, and pointedly doesn’t seem perturbed by the ‘also’ in Bucky’s question. Bucky distantly wonders if his conversation with that kid — what had his name been? Pietro? — was public knowledge among the hotel staff. He bites his tongue to prevent himself from asking.

Bucky wants to fidget. His prosthetic is feeling particularly uncomfortable today, like an itch he can’t quite scratch. He turns to his phone, scrolling through the cycle of apps — e-mail, Facebook, Candy Crush — before turning it off and looking impatiently at the screen behind the desk. Still loading.

“Do you like ballet?” he says, reaching more desperately than he’d care to admit. 

“I don’t know,” the woman says, and for the first time in this exchange, she seems amused. “Do you like working for a racist transphobic extortionist?” She scans down to the bottom of the page, and flips it over. 

Bucky huffs. So apparently, everything about him was common knowledge. “Who’re you to judge?” 

“I’m no one,” the woman replies easily. The computer screen flickers back, and she resignedly closes the magazine, and resumes typing. Bucky glances at the cover, surprised to see the cover of the American Journal of Physics. He looks back at the woman curiously. She walks over to the printer, pulls out the printed reservation, and presents it with minimal flourish, along with a pen. “Sign at the bottom.” 

The ink of the pen splotches at the end of his signature, and it sinks into the skin of his index finger. He rubs at it idly with his thumb, and is unsurprised when the ink stain remains. Bucky pushes the paper back. 

The paper disappears, and the woman slides the card back along the desk. “We hope you enjoy your stay,” she says, and though her face remains neutral, her eyes are deceptively bright.

Bucky slips the card back in his wallet and tucks it back in his pocket. He reaches for his bag, then stops, looking at the woman, who has already turned back to her magazine. He thinks about his sister, stuck on the other side of the country. He thinks about his mother, who’d had to drag away from his father’s unconscious body in the dead of night. He thinks about Steve, and about how much he doesn’t want to be thinking about Steve; about how much he doesn’t want to be thinking about anything at all.

He clears his throat. She doesn’t look up. He didn’t expect anything less. 

“Any clubs in the area?” he asks in one breath, and at that, the woman looks up, eyes meeting his directly for the first time. 

She smiles with all her teeth. 

Bucky gulps. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments. Y'all are lovely, wonderful humans.
> 
> This chapter was a bit sluggish, but the pace will be picking up considerably for the next one. (As well, the rating mayyyy end up being bumped up... we'll see how it plays out!) 
> 
> In the meantime, you can find me on [tumblr.](http://sleepingintheculdesac.tumblr.com/)


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